


Boundaries

by LadyLuckDoubt



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Incest, M/M, One-Shot, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuckDoubt/pseuds/LadyLuckDoubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kristoph and Klavier have an odd relationship which is fraught with complication and inappropriateness. But they have boundaries-- sometimes. It's just that sometimes those boundaries get crossed.</p><p>Obviously, here be incest. Also, there are allusions to earlier, kinkier activities between the two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, this request on the Kink Meme automatically had me thinking of the Gavins: _  
> **Anywhere but their lips**_
> 
>  _Taken from the TVTropes page of the same name:_
> 
>  _Perhaps a kiss on the lips is too intimate (or not enough!) for the situation or maybe the writers just wanted to be unique. Regardless of the reason, there's one thing in common with these kisses — none are on the lips._
> 
>  _So, let's say Character A has extreme objections (no pun intended) to being kissed on the lips, much to the chagrin of Character B. Does Character B show A that a little mouth action isn't so bad, or does s/he let this quirk slide? Do they actually end up fighting about A's resistance to mouth kisses? Write me a scenario about it, anons!_

In darkness, it doesn't matter; it's the perfect shield, they could be two strangers finding their way around unfamiliar territory. They could pretend that they don't know what's really there, that the darkness provides a tantalising fear, that it makes the encounter a bit more unknown and dangerous.

"You hate yourself for this don't you?" Kristoph's voice is a hum just above a whisper, and even though he can't see anything-- he can comfortably remove the glasses and they can possibly both pretend that he's someone else-- or  _not_ \--he can automatically tell how far away Klavier is, he can feel the heat of his body, and he read somewhere that the brain can automatically find another's lips in the darkness, even if one is blind.

He stops himself before he gravitates towards those lips. He can't. Not now.

"Yes." Klavier's voice is weak and broken; Kristoph is correct in his statement, he cannot stand himself. It's depraved and disgusting and wrong; they're both men of the law, high-profile professionals--

When they were younger, during that stage when this was more frequent, Kristoph had sadly likened them to vampires. Despicable creatures which needed to do the abominable in order to survive. There'd been romance in that idea, and Klavier had clung to it, both transfixed and conflicted--  _we're not like the rest of them-- we're a higher law unto ourselves_. 

"Yet you come back here for it. You hunger for me, don't you?" He traces a fingertip down Klavier's cheek; if Klavier mistakes the gesture for one of affection, that's fine, but Kristoph is doing it for himself, to make sure that his assumptions are correct and that he is, in fact, touching Klavier where he supposed he was. He's correct, and in the darkness, he smiles to himself. Perhaps they  _do_  have some sort of a connection, something eerily twinlike which the rest of the world won't understand, ever, even if it's not on this level. He allows his finger-- and then another, and another-- to meet the curve of Klavier's cheek, trailing down his neck and down the chasm of his open shirt.

"What's this?" he asks as he brushes over his brother's chest. "You're  _shaving_  now?" 

Klavier doesn't say anything initially, his breath hitches before answering. "I've had laser treatment," he admits.

He doesn't see Kristoph smirking in the darkness. "It hurts, doesn't it?"  
He can hear that smirk in his voice. 

" _Ja_." 

The heavy breathing and the  _admission_ , the way he seems so horrified with himself when he says it like that, horrified but ultimately defeated; it's beautiful. Kristoph rewards him with a hand which ignores the newly-lasered chest, the folds of black silk, that godawful silver pendant, all the rest of it-- and which snakes its way down the front of his pants.

"These are too tight," he chides him, fingers running against the top. "You'll damage yourself wearing pants like these. I'll never get to become an uncle, Klavier." It's an amused, honeyed taunt, making Klavier reel at his touch and wonder if he really  _does_  want to have children one day and if he did, would he want Kristoph knowing them?

He wants to convince himself that yes, it would be perfectly fine-- as Kristoph unzips him and peels down his slacks-- he's right-- they  _are_  too tight-- though lately he's had misgivings. 

He feels like a desperate teenager, out of his depth and hoping against all hopes that his suspicions are off target in the way he remembered Daryan doing when Daryan was stupid enough to hook up with that twenty-five-year-old chick. Klavier had laughed at his best friend's naivete, and harboured deep concerns; Daryan chased tail, but Daryan fell in  _love_  that time-- in comparison, he was the quiet goodie-goodie, well-behaved and conservative and--

 

"Ach--" It's a guttural noise which comes out of his mouth and he's taken by surprise as he feels those sleek, knowledgeable fingers grasp him roughly, stroking him the moment he's free. Under the leather of his slacks he was insulated and sweaty; now that the cool air around him hits his skin, there's the shock of coldness startling him also; it's sensation; it's memorable because ordinarily he's such a visual person and now, in the darkness-- and they both insist on darkness, in an unspoken agreement-- Kristoph has removed the chance of visual stimuli. And Klavier notes the things he usually doesn't because his eyes are busy. Like the way the air halts the sweat on his skin, giving it a stinging coldness, like the way that's almost uncomfortable but thinking about that, about the tug of resistant leather being pulled down over his ass-- like the way Kristoph's hands are so soft and they know him so well that he's not sure if he's getting off on the sensation or the familiarity-- the way Kristoph automatically  _knows_  he body and what feels good and how to make him come in only a few minutes like no one else is--- 

"I can tell you didn't just get your  _chest_  hair removed." 

"Mmmmph--" He does that thing where he twirls his hand slightly, skin tight but smooth, offering just enough pressure and making him gasp softly.

Slowing his pace, Kristoph answers his own statement. "I suppose it's  _practicality_ ," he continues, as his caresses newly naked skin-- "When you're wearing garments such as  _these_ , criminally tight, and with  _zippers_ \-- stray hair could be an inconvenience." 

He smiles to himself as he realises Klavier is lost in the sensation, bucking against his hand desperately. He slows his movements, deliberately frustrating him. "Did  _that_  hurt, too?"

Gritting his teeth together and trying to push the thoughts of where he is, who this is, and what he's actually doing-- from his head, Klavier bucks sharply against his brother's hand. "Yes," he hisses in frustration. He doesn't want conversation, he doesn't want them admitting to and talking about these things. His depilatory routine is commonplace in celebrity circles, so ordinary that it becomes boring, really, but the way Kristoph manages to talk about it, it sounds scandalous and every bit as depraved as what they're doing right now. 

"I always knew you had masochistic tendencies, Klavier," Kristoph says idly. "I've known that about you for years; remember that time you disobeyed me by doing something dangerous and I needed to punish you--?"

Klavier's not really listening. Despite the darkness, his eyes are clenched shut and he's trying to block out that it's the voice of his brother; maybe if he distracts himself sufficiently by concentrating on another sense, it won't sound like the man he's related to--

"And I had to bend you over my knee and spank you-- and that was when we both learned that you seem to have a different idea about pain to most people, hmm?" 

Klavier gasps, trying to block out the memory, trying to superimpose the feeling of Kristoph's hands on cock over the words. He sometimes wonders if Kristoph had somehow managed to work out-- before he even  _knew_ \-- that he had such tendencies, and had shaped and molded them into something else. Into  _this_. Into making him  _want_  like this, making him do things which went against the grain of who he was.

He feels himself firmly pushed down onto a superficially soft surface: sure, there's fabric on it and it's furniture, but it's not comfortable and embracing like his own lounge suite is-- and Kristoph push his body weight against him, holding him there. One of his hands makes an automatic lunge for his cock again, and then there's surprising gentleness; smooth and cautious lips pressed against his cheek, contrasting the stark efficiency of his fingers. Strands of wheat-blonde milk-and-honey hair brushing across his face, tickling his nose, reminding him of why he's never cutting his hair off again.

And then his voice, low and soft-- and German-- in his ear, his breath warm and appealing-- " _Laß dich küssen, kleinen Bruder_."

He uses German when he wants to be convincing, as though it's somehow reminding Klavier that he too is a bilingual genius whose ideas have merit, and because he knows that Klavier has a weakness for the language. It's a Romance language without being one, Kristoph thinks to himself, pressing his lips once again to his skin, chastely marking out his jawline.

Klavier squirms beneath him, and Kristoph feels himself hardening instantly, something in the back of his mind stirred to irritation because tonight he's not going to do what he usually does, which means he's going to have to relieve himself afterwards with no sweet, recent memories.

As though he's just realised the reaction he's caused, Klavier falls still. "You already are, Kris," he murmurs softly, even though he's well aware of what Kristoph wants to do, as Kristoph's lips edge closer, their softness fading and his movements becoming more aggressive. "And..."

"It's funny," Kristoph says sweetly, another kiss planted on his face, too close for comfort but not close enough to shift away from-- "You allow me to do some of the most painful and potentially injurious things to you, Klavier--" another kiss, edging closer, and it's now when Klavier  _does_  shift his head awkwardly to the side-- "yet a single kiss is too much to ask?"

"We--  _agreed_." There's bitterness from him then, as though the agreement or promise or whatever it was never had much weight anyway and it's about to become yet another boundary that gets transgressed. Yet there's strain in his voice, will dissolving-- this has been going on, on and off for indeterminable years now, always after some event both need to exorcise, it's desperate and depraved and it's the only thing that can cancel out whatever horrors have happened in their day-to-day lives.

"I respect your boundaries, Klavier." Kristoph's voice is sweet and husky.  _Respect_  and  _boundaries_  are odd weasel words to be using right now-- did they exist, really?  _Ever?_

He runs his lips down his chest, kissing, nipping lightly at skin loose enough to be bitten, relishing the gasps coming from his younger brother as he does so. Pushing aside the shirt with his chin, he settles momentarily on a nipple, kissing it tenderly, rubbing his tongue over it, feeling it harden, and he cannot help but push himself against Klavier, allowing him to feel how stuff he is beneath the suit pants, taunting him--  _you're not getting any tonight_.

His hand works him faster, viciously stroking him, relishing the power--  _I can make you do this-- I can make you lose control_.

He knows how tentative it is, how all this could be damned if he ignores the boundaries. Tonight isn't the night.

Klavier twitches and squirms, pulling his feet back, trying to elevate himself, wanting. A low moan comes from his mouth-- " _Kris_ \--"

When he comes, it's relief but only slightly. Kristoph kisses him again, shuffling his body alongside him, his lips at his temple, his hair frustratingly strewn about. Brushing a few strands aside, his other hand resting on Klavier's abdomen, feeling the rise and fall of his chest slowing gradually, he smiles to himself. 

They lie there for what seems like a long time, Kristoph wanting him  _gone_  now, frustrated and unsatisfied and realising he'll need to take matters into his own hands after Klavier has readjusted himself and the roar of the motorcycle engine is disappearing down the end of the street. 

But Klavier, when touched gently on the face, doesn't respond. After his exertion-- Kristoph always wonders exactly how his face  _looks_  when he comes-- he's never seen it-- he's still and the rapid breathing is replaced with something softer and heavier. After a day like today, and a stressful week at the office, Klavier has been exhausted into sleep. 

He'll sleep in the guest room, then. Tomorrow morning Klavier will wake and shower and they'll eat breakfast in the kitchen and he'll study the finance pages and read his horoscope and get lost in the word puzzles, Klavier will scan the entertainment section and they won't talk about this as they never do. 

Kristoph shifts the covers; Klavier is a deep sleeper and remains motionless despite the movement next to him-- as he stands. Dim light, a line from where the curtains meet in front of the window-- offers an alien blue over his face and hair, making him look like a panel in a comic book. 

He cannot help but smile. 

And he leans over, wondering if, like a prince in a fairytale, he'll wake Klavier, as his lips press against his younger brother's, soft and gentle and moist, and almost daring him to wake and discover the truth. Klavier moves slightly, turning his head to the side, a subconscious rejection, maybe, or just the action of a man who now considers kisses on the lips something foreign and unusual.

He smiles to himself as he closes the door, slightly more satisfied.


End file.
